


i fight your touch like a fever

by girljustdied



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: maia and jace hook up because they’re too upset to be with someone they actually like.  also because they can’t be with the ones they actually like.





	i fight your touch like a fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstaudrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/gifts).



> takes place immediately after the party in “love is a devil.”   
> prompt was “see my hands, pretty boy, what do they tell you, cause I've looked down at them not knowing why.”

It’s simple. Not easy, but simple. Their steps falling in sync, heading south, then east. The air is still, and she reaches up to tug at her collar once, twice—

“Leave it. Without the bowtie your outfit would make even less sense.”

There’s no need to play nice. “Hey, is that a bobby pin in your hair, pretty boy?”

Jace smiles, unselfconscious, eyes forward.

Her skin prickles with annoyance, face hot, “And why are you following me, exactly?”

“I’m not?”

She cuts her momentum, plants her feet firmly and crosses her arms over her chest. Watches his footsteps slow to a stop before he turns back to face her. “You’re not?”

He sighs, “I need a drink.”

So does she. The Hunter’s Moon is closed for the night. She tells him so.

Gaze unwavering, his response has an intensity she’s unprepared for, “How about your place?”

“Hard pass.” The words are right, the tone is right, but something is off in her.

“Aren’t we past that?” He’s on that edge of charming that grates. He always is. “What were your words? ‘I’m actually happy I didn’t maul you to death’?”

“That doesn’t mean—“ she can feel her mouth pulling into a snarl, “that doesn’t mean I trust you. I don’t trust men like you. Ever.”

“Men like me?”

Beautiful men. “Shadowhunters.”

His smirk drifts into the traces of a frown. A breath, another, then, “Vampires are fair game, though, huh? Pity.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, for example, I know that the little speech you gave tonight about being totally okay with Simon and Clary was total bullshit.” His own pithy insight seems to amuse him. “Am I wrong?”

He’s not.

Her place is a dump off the J train. A studio with an alcove big enough to fit a twin bed, dirty clothes and paperback books strewn over every surface. He touches some of their spines with the tips of his fingers, taking in the titles but saying nothing. Trying to read into his reactions only serves to remind her how little they know one another.

“I like your apartment,” he finally voices as she opens a bottle of red. “It’s not what I expected.”

She wants to drink straight from the bottle, so she does, head thrown back, long and deep. Breath brittle, after, “It’s pathetic, you can say it.”

“I imagined something a bit more Spartan.” He does not belong on the edge of her bed, but there he sits. The sheets will smell like him. “But this is—it’s yours.”

“I do wish I had less junk,” she leans a knee into the mattress next to his.

“Take it from someone currently living out of a duffle bag: no, you don’t.”

They share the wine, not quite careless about touching as they trade off grips of the neck of the bottle.

“I don’t know,” she’s unsure how to express herself—or if she wants to. “The whole couch-surfing thing sounds like it could be nice. Less solitary, maybe. You’re like a perpetual guest.” At the vulnerability settling into the lines of his face, “Well, a perpetual annoyance, at least.”

A woman with a werewolf pack is never alone. Still—

“It’s very lonely to not belong anywhere.” He holds onto the bottle when she tries to take it back from him, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Or to anyone.” Lets go.

She leans back on her heels and closes her eyes against the world swaying with her.

There is a tension to the silence they fall into that is not unlike how they are in a fight. Reactive to every twitch of her body, ready to strike or ready to evade. The instant she moves to straddle his lap, he takes the bottle from her and sets it safely on the bedside table, free hand skidding up over her hip to hold onto her at the tender spot beneath her ribcage. She squirms in his grip, hands on his shoulders and forehead bending down to touch to his.

“I’m not sure if I’m drunk enough yet.” Kisses him with a roughness that makes her shake, chest heaving with struggling breaths.

“You want to fix that?” His other palm is on the nape of her neck now. Her collar is too tight. Still too tight.

“No,” she lets go of him to yank the bowtie off, open the first few buttons of her dress shirt.

Where she stops, he continues, tugging the suspender straps of her dress down her shoulders to get to the last button. Feeling trapped by her own clothing, she struggles out eagerly until the shirt’s on the floor and her dress is ruched around her waist, legs and upper body bare.

“Are you going to take off your clothes or what?” she huffs.

“Happy to,” he slings an arm around her and stands effortlessly with her legs still astride his hips, turning and setting her back down onto the bed.

After he shrugs off his jacket, their mouths connect again in strained, distracted kisses as they work together to get his shirt off fully. The first glimpse of the rune on his left shoulder is sobering. She must have stiffened, because he stills above her, shirt hanging loosely around his body.

“Are you waiting for me to ask you if this is what you really want?”

Shifting her hips up his body while she presses a hand down firmly to the top of his head, “I think I kind of don’t want to see your face.”

He’s pliable to her touch but doesn’t descend down her body completely. “Maybe yours isn’t the face I wanna see, either, that ever occur to you?”

“Yeah, it has,” she laughs, tugging the straps of her dress haphazardly back up to her biceps. The situation is absurd. “Which is yet another reason why we probably shouldn’t be doing this in the first place.”

“I don’t know,” a palm running up her inner thigh, “it feels good.”

She watches him tug off her underwear with a heavy, lidded gaze. Can feel her arousal heavy in her breast with sudden clarity and exhales a soft groan when he spreads her legs and ducks under her skirt, one of her knees slung up over his shoulder. Nose to chin he nuzzles the lines of her cunt, firm, seeming to sense that she doesn’t want to be teased.

She wants a sure thing.

He stretches the leg over his shoulder further towards her chest, repositioning to penetrate her with two fingers. Her hands clutch at her sheets, twisting up the pliable jersey knit into tight fists. It’s just on the edge of painful, like starting to shift. If she closes her eyes, she could pretend. She could make soft whimpering sounds and beg and feel connected—

“Fuck,” she twitches against his mouth as he moves to swipe measured, firm licks across the swollen nub of her clit. Eyes snapping open to take in the ceiling, that one long crack she often fixates on before falling asleep, she reaches down and buries a hand in his hair. The touch makes the lines of his body relax, he sighs against her—

It’s too much.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps. “Oh, no.”

“What?” he says into the taut muscles of her thigh, breath warm and wet. His hand doesn’t still, fingertips hooking up to stroke her with a sure and steady pressure that makes her exhales hitch into time with his movements.

She bites her lip, but then voices the thought anyway, “I’d hoped that you wouldn’t be good at this.”

His laugh is short but genuine, and there is no retort except for his body angling to get a shoulder under her other knee.

Heaven, she thinks.

There’s no need to hold back. She doesn’t. Digs her heels into his ribs and lifts her ass up of the bed to thrust against his face until he has to hold onto her with both hands on her knees to stay with her. She comes with a wordless cry, hips jerking against his mouth with little aftershocks as he eases her down.

He stays at the foot of the bed as she strains to calm her breathing, curled up so that only his feet hang over the edge.

“Maia.” It may be the first time he’s called her by her name. It’s a tender sound. “Can I crash here tonight?”

“No.” Then, less bluntly, “I don’t think you should.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Jacket in one hand, not bothering to button his shirt, he takes off without another word. The door clicks shut with less force than she’d expected. Hadn’t recognized the tenseness still in her body until it relaxes at familiar sensation of the empty room, feels boneless and sated. Feels better.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. Imagines that he heard her.

He probably did.


End file.
